Dominic's Chronicles
⸻
Three days.
It took me three days to notice she was gone.
That realization alone sat like a stone in my chest as I stood in the hallway outside her room, staring at the closed door.
I'd been buried in meetings, calls, and reports — or maybe that was just the excuse I wanted to believe. The truth was, I'd been avoiding her. Ever since that day in my office.
Every time I replayed that argument, I told myself I'd been right. I told myself she'd crossed a line. That I'd only spoken out of frustration.
But the silence of the house told a different story.
Mrs. Langley had mentioned earlier that dinner was ready. I'd asked, offhandedly, if Aurora was eating in her room again. She'd gone quiet for a little too long before saying she'd "check."
That's when the unease started.
Now, standing in front of her door, I knocked once. Then again.
Nothing.
"Aurora?" My voice came out lower than I expected, uncertain. "Are you awake?"
Silence.
I tried the handle. It was locked.
I exhaled, rubbing my temple. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe she didn't want to see me — and really, I couldn't blame her.
Still, something didn't sit right.
I turned and made my way downstairs. The staff were quietly clearing the dining table, their movements too careful, like they were avoiding noise.
Mrs. Langley was in the kitchen, supervising as usual. She turned when she heard me.
"Mr. Blackwood," she greeted quickly, smoothing her apron. "Would you like your dinner served now?"
"Later," I said. "Where's Aurora?"
The faint surprise in her eyes was immediate. "Pardon, sir?"
"I said where is she? I haven't seen her around since…" I trailed off, realizing just how long it had actually been. "Since the weekend, I think."
"Oh." She hesitated — and that hesitation made my stomach tighten. "Ah, yes… Miss Sinclair left three days ago, sir."
I blinked. "She what?"
"Yes, sir. She mentioned she was going to her brother's house. I… thought you were aware."
I wasn't.
The single thought cut through everything else.
"When?" I asked again, slower.
"Three mornings ago," Mrs. Langley said. "She packed a few things, said she'd be staying with Mr. Alex Sinclair for a while. She seemed… upset, sir, but I didn't want to pry."
The words settled in like a slow, unwelcome echo. She seemed upset.
Of course she was.
I leaned against the counter, jaw tight. My mind went back to that day in the office — her face, the way her hands trembled as she typed, the hurt in her eyes before she walked out.
I'd told myself she needed space. That it would blow over. That she'd come back downstairs like always, quiet but steady.
But she hadn't.
She'd left. Without a word.
Mrs. Langley's voice broke through my thoughts softly. "Should I call Mr. Sinclair's residence to confirm she arrived safely, sir?"
I shook my head. "No. That's not necessary."
She nodded, though she didn't look convinced, and went back to directing the kitchen staff.
I stood there for a long moment after she left, the faint clatter of dishes filling the silence around me.
She left three days ago. And I didn't even notice.
For the first time in a long while, something uncomfortable stirred in my chest — something dangerously close to guilt.
I turned and walked toward my study, but even as I sat down at my desk, the usual calm I found there was nowhere to be found. The numbers on the screen blurred, the words on the page meaningless.
All I could see was her face — quiet, composed, until I broke that calm myself.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe I deserved the silence that followed.
⸻
It had been four days since I last saw her.
Four days of silence.
The house felt heavier than usual, like even the walls had learned to miss her quiet presence. Mrs. Langley didn't say anything, but I could tell the staff noticed too. There was no soft humming down the hall, no clinking of her coffee cup in the kitchen, no quiet footsteps near the garden.
Just absence.
I'd half expected Alex to call — to question me, accuse me, demand an explanation. But he hadn't. Not once.
And that told me enough.
Alex Sinclair was many things — loud, opinionated, unfiltered — but he was protective to his core. If he hadn't called, it wasn't out of indifference. It was because of her.
I'd hurt his sister, and he was choosing silence over civility.
The realization sat uncomfortably in my chest.
By the time Damian walked into my office that morning, I hadn't slept properly in two nights. He didn't bother knocking, just pushed the door open and leaned against the frame like he owned the place.
"You look like hell," he said.
"Good morning to you too," I muttered, eyes on the file in front of me.
He crossed the room and sat opposite me, folding his arms. "So. Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?"
"With what?"
He shot me a flat look. "Don't play dumb, Dominic. Alex called me yesterday."
My head lifted slightly. "He did?"
"Yeah. He didn't say much — just that Aurora's been with him for days now and that you've been quiet. Too quiet. So, I figured I'd come and see for myself why the great Dominic Blackwood suddenly doesn't have anything to say."
I leaned back in my chair. "There's nothing to say."
"That's bullshit, and you know it."
His words hit a little too sharply.
I exhaled. "We argued. I said some things I shouldn't have. She left. That's all."
"That's all?" Damian repeated, incredulous. "You call breaking your fiancée's heart that's all?"
"She's not—" I stopped, jaw tightening. "It's complicated."
"Yeah, I can tell," he said dryly. "You're miserable, she's miserable, Alex wants to murder you, and I'm apparently supposed to sit here and pretend this is normal."
I didn't respond.
Damian sighed, leaning forward. "Dom, I don't know what happened between you two — and I don't need to know every detail. But this isn't you. You're not the type to let things rot just because you're too damn proud to fix them."
"I'm not proud," I said quietly. "I'm…" I stopped, searching for the word. "I'm ashamed."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Damian's tone softened. "Then do something about it."
"What, call her? Text Alex?" I gave a humorless laugh. "He won't even pick up. And honestly, I don't blame him."
"Then don't call," he said simply. "We'll go."
I blinked. "Go where?"
"To Alex's house," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll talk to her. In person. Not through phone calls, not through guilt. Face to face."
"Damian—"
"Don't start," he cut in. "You've been hiding behind work and silence long enough. You can't fix what you broke by pretending it doesn't exist."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then prove it."
I stared at him, and for once, I had nothing to say.
He pushed back his chair and stood. "Get your keys. We're going now."
I glanced at the clock. "It's past seven."
"Good. Maybe she'll be home."
I wanted to argue, to tell him it wasn't a good idea, that showing up unannounced would only make things worse. But deep down, a part of me knew he was right.
I'd spent days convincing myself to stay still — to let her breathe, to let the anger fade. But it wasn't fading. It was festering.
By the time I stood and grabbed my jacket, Damian was already waiting by the door with that look that meant he wasn't taking no for an answer.
The drive was quiet for the first few minutes, the city lights flickering past the windows. Damian eventually broke the silence.
"You know Alex is going to blow up, right?"
"I know."
"And you're ready for that?"
"No," I admitted.
He chuckled under his breath. "At least you're honest about it."
The closer we got to the Sinclairs' estate, the heavier the air felt. Damian's casual energy dimmed into something more serious. When we finally pulled into the long driveway, I saw the glow of lights spilling from the front porch. They must have known we were coming.
Alex was standing there already, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable — but his eyes said everything.
Anger.
I parked the car and got out. Damian followed quietly behind.
"Alex," I started, but his voice cut through the night before I could finish.
"You've got some nerve showing up here," he said coldly.
Damian stepped in, hands raised. "Let's just—"
"No, Damian," Alex snapped, his voice rising. "He doesn't get to come here acting like this is some business deal gone wrong. You hurt her, Blackwood. My sister cried herself to sleep for days, and you didn't even notice she was gone!"
His words hit harder than I wanted them to.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"I don't care what your excuse is," Alex continued, taking a step forward. "You don't get to treat her like that and then show up expecting what? Forgiveness?"
Damian finally put a hand on his shoulder. "Alex. Enough. Let them talk."
Alex exhaled hard, his jaw still clenched. "Fine. But if you say one thing that makes her cry again—"
"I won't," I said quietly.
He glared at me for another second before turning toward the house. "She's upstairs. Do whatever it is you came to do. But if she tells me to throw you out, I will."
He walked back inside.
For a moment, I just stood there, hands in my pockets, staring at the closed door.
Damian gave me a look — somewhere between sympathy and warning. "Go fix it, man. Or at least try."
I nodded once, then followed Alex into the house.
The lights were warm, the faint sound of music playing somewhere upstairs.
And all I could think about was the look on her face the last time we stood in front of each other.
This time, there'd be no pride. No anger. Just truth — whatever that turned out to be.
The house felt heavier than it should.
Every tick of the clock sounded louder, every silence sharper.
I stood there, in Alex Sinclair's living room, waiting — not sure if I was ready for what would happen next. Damian had tried to make small talk, but even he'd given up after the fifth attempt. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
Then she appeared.
Aurora.
Her steps were quiet, deliberate. She stopped a few feet from me, eyes flicking from Damian to me, and then she froze — completely still when our gazes met.
Her expression shifted like a storm cloud passing: confusion, disbelief, then anger. Real, cold anger.
Damian gave her a soft smile. "Hey, Aurora."
She nodded politely at him, but her eyes never left me.
My throat tightened. "Aurora," I said quietly. "Can we talk?"
She didn't move. For a moment, I thought she'd turn right back around. But then she slowly reached into the small bag she carried and pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew over the screen, and then she turned it to me.
"About what, Mr. Blackwood?"
I exhaled slowly. "About… the other day. About what I said."
She typed again, quicker this time. "You mean the day you reminded me that my silence makes me a burden?"
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I shut my eyes briefly. "I deserve that."
She crossed her arms, waiting.
"Please," I said quietly. "Just give me a few minutes."
Her jaw flexed, but after a long pause, she nodded toward the hallway leading to the back garden
It almost looked like the garden she used to sit in at home.I followed her out.
The evening air was cool — the scent of wet earth clinging to everything after the earlier drizzle. She stopped near the stone bench, standing instead of sitting.
I hesitated before speaking. "Aurora, I came to say I'm sorry. For what I said. For how I said it. You didn't deserve any of that."
She typed again. Her face was calm, but her fingers trembled faintly.
"Why? Because Damien made you realize it was cruel? Or because your conscience finally kicked in?"
I looked away, shame burning in my chest. "Both."
Her thumbs moved again.
"I didn't leave because of your words. I left because staying meant losing myself. I couldn't stand being near you after that."
I swallowed hard. "I know. And I don't expect forgiveness. I just needed you to know that I meant none of it. You didn't do anything wrong."
Her eyes glistened slightly in the fading light. She typed, slower this time:
"You hurt me, Dominic. You made me feel… small. Like the one thing I can't control defines me."
My voice dropped. "I know. And I hate that I did."
For a long time, she just looked at me — like she was trying to decide if my apology was worth believing. Then finally, she typed something short.
"I forgive you. But I won't forget it."
That was Aurora — gentle, honest, unflinching.
I nodded once. "That's fair."
The door opened behind us, and both Damian and Alex stepped into the garden. Damian had that knowing, careful look on his face; Alex's expression, on the other hand, was pure steel.
He came closer, arms still crossed. "So, did you say what you came to say?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"Good." He exhaled sharply. "Because, Dominic, I'm trying really hard not to lose it here."
Aurora frowned, typing fast.
"Alex, please stop."
"No, Rory," he snapped. "You can forgive him all you want, but that doesn't erase what he said. You cried for days. You didn't eat. You shut everyone out. Including me, your twin brother".
Her shoulders sank slightly, and guilt burned through my chest like acid.
"I know," I said quietly. "And that's on me. I can't change it. But I'm trying to make it right."
Alex gave a short, humorless laugh. "Make it right? You think you can just show up and fix what you broke with a few words?"
Damian placed a hand on his shoulder. "Alex, come on—"
"No," he said, voice rising slightly, "because if she wasn't the person she is — kind, patient — she'd have never let him in again."
Aurora typed again, turning the screen sharply toward him.
"I'm fine, Alex. Please."
He sighed heavily, his anger thinning into frustration. "You're too soft on people, Rory."
I looked at her. She looked back, and for a moment, there was something silent but powerful there — not forgiveness yet, but maybe the start of understanding.
I spoke quietly. "He's right. You shouldn't forgive me easily. But… thank you for hearing me out."
She typed her final message.
"You should go now, Dominic. Please."
I nodded. "Alright."
Damian and I started toward the door, but before we stepped out, Alex's voice came again — lower this time, but still firm. "She may have forgiven you. I haven't. You're still my friend and I expect you to prove you're not the same man who said those words."
I met his eyes and nodded once. "I will."
As I walked out, I glanced back — just once. Aurora was still standing there, her phone lowered, her hair catching the dim light.
And I realized that what I felt wasn't just guilt anymore. It was something quieter. Deeper.